


War Paint

by Spadesinspades



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-09 23:33:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spadesinspades/pseuds/Spadesinspades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a short fic prompt from Kriskenshin:</p><p>”After the fall Sherlock creates the character ‘Moran’ so he can control Moriarty’s network and take it down.  John is also trying to take down Moriarty’s network and plans to kill ‘Moran’ not knowing it is Sherlock.”</p><p>Quite unexpectedly, it will now be two short chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KrisKenshin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisKenshin/gifts).



\----

There’s an odd hush about the compound as everyone readies their equipment.  Buckles are snapped shut, zippers are pulled closed and ropes are wound.  It is not silent, but the sounds are merely out of necessity.  No one speaks for fear of breaking the delicate calm.

John checks the magazine before snapping it back into his gun.  He adjusts the volume on his radio and recites the pass code for the storage yard in his head.  Months of planning have brought him to this very instant and he can’t let himself down by not being ready.  He is.  It’s time.

John looks around at the group of men and women around him, dressed in black and leather, and grins out of the side of his mouth.  

“Put on your war paint,” he tells them, at last.  Black lines are drawn under eyes and wool balaclavas are pulled down.  They pile into an unmarked van and manhandle their hostage into position.  Then they are out on London’s dark streets, driving towards destiny.

#

“Listen to me you ignorant  _fucks,_ ” he growls into the speaker phone.  ”I gave you one bloody task.  ONE.  So get the hell back out there and bring me Zane Adams.”

He jabs the disconnect button and falls back into his chair, huffing out all the air in his lungs.  There was no way that he was going to let one egotistical drug dealer jeopardize his entire plan.  If Sebastian Moran had a legacy, it would be one of fear, retribution and utter loyalty.  And Sherlock Holmes would do anything in his power to perpetuate the almost mythological stature he had built for himself through Jim Moriarty’s supposedly ‘left-hand’ man.

“Sir!” 

Sherlock as Sebastian stands from behind the table as one of his men comes jogging into the room.

“What is it?”

“Someone’s here.  There’s a van parked at the back of the warehouse.  We missed it on the cameras and Levinsky says it’s empty.  Whoever drove it here is already in the storage yard.”

“You know, you people never fail to astound me with your sheer incompetence.  Lock it down!  And someone get me a gun!”

#

John and a kid named Mason climb a ladder that clings to the exterior of the building.  Roof access allows them one severe advantage - access to the junction box.

Mason uses a bolt cutter to break through the padlock, then pops open the casing with a crowbar.  He looks over at John and nods before sprinting across the roof to the maintenance stairway door.  It’s currently locked down with a magnetic lock and release system, but that won’t really be a deterrent once John cuts through every wire in the box.

John takes the handful of colourful wire and exhales heavily.  He knows that once he cuts, everything will jolt into motion.  And if everything goes according to his plan, he’ll be standing face to face with Sebastian Moran in mere minutes.  And he will have his revenge.

_Inhale.  Exhale.  Cut._

#

The lights go out and there is a heavy metal  _clunk_  as numerous doors release their magnetic locks.  An unfamiliar sensation crawls up Sherlock’s spine - cold and sharp.  He barks orders at a few lackeys in the room, instructing them to cover the entrances.

“Who the hell could’ve tracked us here?”  He directs the question at the closest gunman.

“No one, Moran,” comes the reply, “the network thinks you are in Paris.  It’s impossible.”

“Well evidently not,” Sherlock replies, flatly.  ”Go see to-“

Before he can continue, shouting and gunfire erupts from the north west entrance to the building, interrupting him.  Bursts from the firearms throw staccato shadows across the roof and walls.  Sherlock’s eyes sweep around in the darkness, but he can only make out rough shapes and blurred motion.  The ruckus continues for a few long moments, then dissipates into shuffling feet and hurried whispers.

Sherlock settles into his alter ego and thumbs the safety off his gun.  He readies himself for battle.

#

John and Mason each take a handful of Zane Adams’ jacket and drag him across the concrete floor.  His hands are zip-tied behind his back, so his attempts at struggle are laughable at best.

“MORAN!” Mason calls into the darkness.  ”Show yourself!”

There is no reply.

“If you don’t come out, we’ll put a bullet in your dealer’s head.”

A soft laughter emanates from the back corner of the room.  ”Be my guest,” Moran replies, “saves me the trouble.”

John narrows his eyes and nods at two of his colleagues.  They peel off from the main group and try to circle around to the source of the voice.  

“I knew you were a rat, Sebastian, but I didn’t know you were a coward,” John calls out.  It will be easier to find him if they can keep him talking. 

“Far from it, I’m afraid,” Moran replies.  This time, his voice comes from the opposite end of the room.  ”A self-preservationist, perhaps.”

Mason brings his gun down hard on Zane Adams’ head and knocks him out cold.  He gestures into the darkness in the direction of the voice and leaves John alone in the only pool of light.

“Oh, a ‘self-preservationist’.  I see,” John continues, drawing his gun.  ”Don’t forget to add ‘murderer’ to the list.”

In the next moment, there’s the sound of fabric rustling and the scuff of shoes on concrete.  Then John feels the cold barrel of a gun pressed against his temple.  Warm lips move against his ear, in a whisper.

“I’ll never forget the lives I’ve taken.”

John reacts without a second thought.  He stomps down on the foot of his assailant and throws an elbow backwards.  It connects with Moran’s solar plexus and John can hear the rush of air escape his lungs.  He takes two steps backwards and holds his gun straight out in front of him, safety off and hammer cocked.

Sebastian moves almost as quickly.  He assumes a similar position - gun drawn and pointed at John - and they find themselves in a stand-off.  John tries to glean as much information about Moran as he can in the next few seconds.  He needs every advantage he can get.

Most noticeably, he’s tall and lean.  Ginger-haired and smartly dressed.  He holds the weapon more like a sportsman than a soldier, but John has no doubt about his ability to pull the trigger.  The darkness of the room obscures most of his face in shadow, but it appears angular and sharp.

“Who are you?” Moran finally demands.

John removes one hand from his gun to pull off his balaclava, and discards it on the floor.  ”John Watson,” he replies.  ”I’m sure you’ve heard of me.  We actually have a lot in common.  I believe you also watched my best friend throw himself off a roof.  Only you did it through the scope of a rifle.”

Sebastian seems to falter slightly, his hands dipping for a moment before he becomes rigid again.

“John?  But how did you-“

“Shut up!  Lower your weapon.  You’re outnumbered and surrounded.  Just give it up.”

“You… you tracked me here?  You found me, by yourself?  No police?”

John swallows, impatient.  ”No police.  Which, if I were you, would worry me more than if they were here.  Because if you don’t drop that bloody gun, I’m going to put a bullet through you and plead self-defense.”

Sebastian takes a step closer, further into the light, and slowly crouches.  He places the gun on the floor and holds his hands up in surrender.

“John,” he says again, but this time, his voice sounds different.   _Impossibly_ different.

#


	2. Chapter 2

The floor begins to tilt at an alarming angle.  John's vision swims and suddenly Sebastian's hair darkens as two images - one superimposed above the other - try to resolve themselves into one person.  He blinks and sways on his feet.  Sherlock steps forward, arm outstretched, to steady him.

"Stay back!" John shouts.  His gun shakes in his hand.

Sebastian ignores the demand and grips him at the elbow firmly.  The movement has closed the distance between them to less than two feet.  His hand feels red hot through John's clothes, as if it were burning right through the layers of fabric.

Sherlock speaks his name once more and steps closer.  "John."

Their faces are inches apart.  John is breathing Sebastian's exhalations, tasting the flavour of his name from the other man's mouth.  His grip on the gun has tightened; his knuckles white and drained of blood.  The metal of the muzzle is pressed against Sebastian's throat, pushing into the skin.

"This is-" John starts.  Stops.  Swallows.  "This is impossible.  I saw-"

Sherlock doesn't let him finish.  He presses his mouth against John's hard and fast.  They are frozen in tableau for a long, drawn out moment before lips part and they crash into a kiss.  Breathless, they drink each other in, teeth and lips and tongues.  Sherlock's neck moves against the barrel of the gun, which John refuses to relinquish.  He kisses him like he is resurrected, regardless.

A few moments later, a keening wail starts in the back of John's throat and he pushes Sebastian away, breaking the kiss. Sherlock stumbles backwards, trying to maintain his balance.  John presses his hands to his head, the gun still clutched in the left one.  A strangled cry falls from his lips and he collapses on to his knees. Sebastian crouches down and reaches out just as Mason comes careening into the scene.

"DON'T TOUCH HIM!"

He pushes Sherlock aside and squats in front of John.  They start speaking in hurried and hushed voices.  Sherlock can only stand back and watch as the complete stranger comforts the only man in the world that matters to him.  He starts to pace in a short, abrupt line.  He considers picking up his discarded firearm, then decides against it.  The jig is most certainly up, he tells himself by way of rationalisation.  Finally, he is able to make out John's voice - weak and tired - over the whispers.

"Detain him," John says.  "And take Sebastian Moran back to the base."

#

After being manhandled into and out of cars and buildings with a black hood over his head, Sherlock is finally dragged down a flight of stairs and deposited into a cold metal chair.  Mason pulls the black cloth off of his head and Sherlock blinks, trying to adjust to the new light level.  He makes his observations quickly.

They are in a basement somewhere just outside of London, given by the temperature of the room and the species of mold growing up one wall.  He imagines it's an abandoned building, since the upkeep is virtually non-existent, but it seems too large to be a residential lot.  Perhaps a commercial one - a storefront somewhere that fell on poor times and rotted away sitting on the dismal real estate market.  This conclusion seems to be supported by the large, utilitarian shelving structure that takes up an entire wall to his left.

"Hey Moran, what's got you so interested all of a sudden?"  

Mason is approaching from behind, but due to his restraints, Sherlock is unable to turn and look at him.  He listens for the footfalls instead, and tracks his movement through the room.

"I'm in awe of your illustrious headquarters, is all," Sherlock replies.  "I love what you've done with the place.  It really gives off a 'we're a bunch of lunatic radicals' kind of vibe."

Sherlock is unable to predict the incoming attack; Mason moves silently.  He swings a baton and clips Sherlock in the back of his head, sending him sprawling on to the floor, chair and all.

"You've got a smart mouth,"  Mason says.  "But you don't seem to be very smart with how you use it."

Mason grabs Sherlock under the arms and hauls him upright.  He sets him back on the chair and presses the baton into his chest.  Sherlock's head is ringing and he can feel the trickle of warm blood down the back of his neck.

"Come on clever boy, what else have you got?"  Mason asks.  "I could go all night."

"That's enough."

_John._

Mason gives Sherlock a final shove with his baton, pushing his chair a couple of inches backwards with the force of it.

"I said, that's enough."

Mason huffs, but walks away.  He stations himself in the corner of the room closest to the stairs and leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.  He does his best impression of nonchalance.  To Sherlock, it's a poor performance.

"Moran," John says, at last.

Sherlock wills himself not to look up, but his head is hazy from the injury.  His mind is familiar with the name now and he meets John's gaze more out of habit than anything else.

"Holmes," he replies, correcting him.  "It's Sherlock Holmes.  But then again, I'm pretty sure you already knew that."

John narrows his eyes and Sherlock sees the hatred written across his face, plain as day.  "Sherlock Holmes is dead," John counters.

Sherlock shakes his head.  Nausea nearly overwhelms him.  He closes his eyes and tries to swallow.

"He lives."

"Certainly not as I remember him."

"John, it's just a disguise.  I needed to get inside Moriarty's-"

John holds up his hand to halt Sherlock.  The words slide back down his throat, unspoken.

"You know, I heard someone say once that there was a problem with disguises.  However hard you try, it's always a self portrait."

Sherlock lets his head fall forward, chin to chest.  John's words chill him, especially the ones he doesn't say outright.   _Murderer.  Criminal.  Liar.  This is what you've always been._

"Says the vigilante to the assassin," Sherlock mutters in reply.

John reacts like the crack of a whip.  In the next second he has one hand around Sherlock's neck and for the second time that night, their faces are nearly occupying the same space.

"What did you say?" John asks through clenched teeth.

Sherlock flexes the muscles in his neck but can still feel the crush of John's fingers on his windpipe.  He coughs, roughly, and John relents.  But only slightly.

"Hypocrite," he rasps.  "I wasn't the one who was planning murder tonight.  I can't say the same about you and your band of idiots, though."

John releases his grip with a growl and walks away from Sherlock.  He stalks over to Mason and sends him upstairs with a pointed gesture and angry words.  Mason's steps are heavy on the stairs as he stomps away.  Sherlock and John are alone at last.

Sherlock watches John carefully as he walks back across the basement floor.  He is taking slow, measured steps.  His breaths are deep, drawing up from his stomach, through his chest and out his nose, nostrils flared.  John's jaw is set and clenched, his eyes lost in the middle distance.  When he's about three feet in front of Sherlock, he stops.  He reaches into the back of his trousers, pulls out a gun and thumbs off the safety.  John turns slightly so that he is perpendicular to Sherlock and raises the gun, arm steady.

"Tell me why I shouldn't just kill you, Sebastian Moran," John demands, practically spitting the last words.  He cocks the hammer of the gun.

Sherlock can feel his heart beating in his throat.  He has no doubt that John will pull the trigger if he doesn't answer correctly.

"Because sometimes," he begins, falters, and clears his throat.  "Because sometimes the person you'd take a bullet for is the one behind the trigger."

Sherlock watches as tears lick at the corners of John's eyes.  He is warring with himself, fighting disbelief and elation with anger and betrayal.  His gun hand shudders from a tremor.

"John," he continues, his voice barely a whisper, "because I ache without you.  Because the second I saw you, I knew I couldn’t be away from you again.  The rest is obvious, isn’t it?"

“No,” John replies, his defenses weakening.  “Tell me.  I know how you like to show off.”

Sherlock looks at him.  No, _observes_ him.  John is standing in such a way that he’s favouring his bad leg.  The pain may have returned, but he’s acting like it hasn’t in front of his little group of hunters.  He also refuses to face Sherlock head on, instead choosing to stand sideways.  He’s dodging the truth of the situation, hoping it will slide past him.   _Avoidance_.  Sherlock notes the dark circles under his eyes ( _not sleeping_ ) and the way his face seems sharper, leaner ( _not eating, either_ ).   _The PTSD has returned, or worsened_.  He considers the two of them, each pretending in his own way, and is suddenly sure of one thing.  They are better together.  They need each other to be whole.

Sherlock thinks about telling John everything that he sees.  Once upon a time, he had seduced John with colourful observations and clever words.  But this time, it’s different.  He’s not showing off this time, he’s showing up.  Finally.  He finds John’s gaze and holds it, waiting until he’s sure that John is right there with him.  

“You shouldn’t kill me because I love you,” he says simply.

John closes his eyes and the connection between them is broken.  For a moment, Sherlock thinks that he has overstepped, that he misjudged what John needed to hear.  He realizes that he put his need to confess above John’s need for apologies and explanations.  But it’s too late to take the words back.  Sherlock’s declaration hangs in the air between them, unanswered.

The change is subtle at first, a slight hitch in his breathing.  But a few moments later, John’s shoulders are shaking and Sherlock can’t tell if he’s laughing or crying.  Either way, it’s a silent emotion, telegraphed only by the way his body is echoing with slight convulsions.  A tinge of fear settles into the pit of Sherlock’s stomach; a realization that this could be the end.

John shifts slightly and steadies himself.  He opens his eyes and tears stream down his cheeks. Sherlock can tell that something has been decided.  The gun's safety engages with a _click_ and the Sig falls to the dusty floor in a clatter.  John Watson drops to his knees and buries his head in Sherlock's lap just as he falls to pieces.

A name tumbles from his lips.  “ _Sherlock.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless gratitude to Kam, M, and Ray who helped polish this chapter and who are the only people capable of quelling my seemingly unrelenting feelings of inadequacy. I couldn't have done this without you and it is what it is because you cared enough to read and offer suggestions.
> 
> And, of course, to Kriskenshin, who gave life to this fic with her amazing prompt. I hope you like it. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] War Paint](https://archiveofourown.org/works/979801) by [consulting_smartass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_smartass/pseuds/consulting_smartass)




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